Excerpt from Stairway To Nowhere © Luke James 2008

 

Chapter 6

Grannies, Schoolgirls, TV, Toyah, & Product Perfect

 

12/13/78 –Birmingham Art Gallery (1PM)    

I was pushing my speaker cabinet past a row of gigantic Botticellis or some such. Loads of fat naked people writhing about in bits of gauze – bit like that dream I had last night come to think. I was deep inside the Birmingham Art Gallery looking for the auditorium where the gig was scheduled. It was 10 o’clock in the morning for fuck’s sake, and as I hadn’t been up all night I should have been asleep. I was gasping for a fag, even something to eat would have been alright. But there were old gallery guards posted under no smoking signs every twenty yards or so, and to add injury to insult, as I rounded a corner I saw the café was closed. I mean I used to come here a few years back of a Saturday morning to try and chat up art student chicks. I wondered what our audience would be like. How the fuck Mulligan had dug us up this gig was beyond me. But then a lot of things Mulligan did were beyond me – or most other people – my job was to write songs, play guitar, sing, and look as extraterrestrial as possible. Just as I thought I’d be lost forever in these endless galleries to be finally devoured by a Minotaur, I caught a glimpse of Dik up ahead disappearing through a doorway.

The room was big with a good-sized stage,

lighting towers and footlights, and faced rows of folding chairs. A dirty great big high ceiling made me feel a bit like I was inside a gigantic wedding cake.

 

     “Probably get about 400 in here.” I told Dik

 

He looked up from screwing the 3-D jigsaw puzzle

of his drum kit together and grinned.

 

          “How many guitarists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Exactly.” And he bent to his task.

 

A sudden tidal wave of white noise followed by a

series of beeps and squeaks blasted into the room, signaling that Mulligan might be close to having his synth (a sometimes self-firing, touch-sensitive WASP) set up. His head looked like it was framed by a peroxide atomic blast.

 

“Oy! Mikes.” Miki commanded from the back of the

auditorium.

 

And so I was into another round of one twos and

peter piper picked a peck of pickled ganja.

 

”Miki. Is there anyway we can move this piano?”

Mulligan asked, pointing at a gargantuan Steinway parked on his side of the stage.

 

“You might,” Miki said, “I’m not. I’m busy.” And

he bent over his mixing desk tweaking nipple switches.

 

“You could always try learning to play it.” Dik

said.

 

Mulligan sniffed, pursed his lips and played an

approximation of the opening riff to Product Perfect on his WASP.

The sound check went quickly enough – by this

stage we knew what we were doing and the room, while a bit more acoustically designed to house Mozart and Bach, was fairly good. Now if we could all avoid getting Brahms at lunchtime, we’d be fine. Actually that was proving less of a problem the more we gigged. No one drank, snorted or smoked anything (other than fags) before shows. Of course afterwards was an entirely different kettle of spanners.

 

“So what are we gonna do now?” I asked, putting

my beloved custom John Birch guitar carefully back in its case.

 

“I’m going to look at some of the exhibits.’

Mulligan said.

 

“Thrilling.” Dik said and grinned. “Here, lanky,

fancy finding a kaff and getting some scoff down us?”

 

“Yeah alright,” I said, “Miki? You up for a spot

of the old double egg and chips?”

 

“One of these days,” Mulligan said, “It’ll be my

paintings hanging in here.”

 

“Yeah, and if we don’t play well this afternoon,

it’ll most likely be us hanging up in here.” Dik said.

 

“Culture vulture fodder.” I agreed.

 

          It was still light outside. Our intro music, some esoteric piece of obscurity that Mulligan had dug out, was fading into whooshes, whoops, and whale song as I took the stage. Covering the back windows there was a huge blackout curtain that had been left slightly open to reveal a slice of uncharacteristic blue sky. The afternoon was turning out to be well surreal, and getting more surreal by the second.

 

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” I said in

best BBC voice, “We are Fashion Music and we have the prefect product.”

 

As we wheeled into the intro to Product Perfect  

I squinted down through the footlights at the front row and saw … a line of grannies clutching their handbags, interspersed by the occasional knot of giggling 14-year-old schoolgirls. Like I said, stranger and stranger.

 

The show was smooth as smooth could be, no major

fluffs, with bags of swank. As we came off after our second encore Dik grinned a huge mouthful of teeth at me.

 

          “Better than sex!” he announced, sweat spangled.

 

I wouldn’t quite that far but the sight of

Grannies skank-dancing with schoolgirls down in front of the stage while we played Red Green and Gold was not something you could have paid me any amount of money to miss.

 

***

 

“I hate the countryside.” Dik announced.

 

“Yeah,” Mulligan agreed, “It’s just so … so,

quiet.”

 

“And dirty and smelly,” I added.

 

“And miles from anywhere.” Dik concluded

 

“Where are we Miki?” Annette asked.

 

“Just driving past another field full of cows,”

Miki said quite cheerfully.

 

“Only it’ll be getting dark soon.” She said

nervously.

 

“We’re all going to die.” Mulligan intoned.

 

“Try turning left at that haystack,” I suggested

then if you come to a main road about two miles on-“

 

“It’ll be a bloody miracle.” Miki said. “Put that map away and stop pretending you know where we are.”

 

We stood, shivering in a haute couture knot

beside the van and stared from the car park at a huge wooden shed. Night had fallen like a ton of bricks about half an hour earlier and Miki’s radar had kicked in.

 

“Says Fashion on that poster over there.” Miki

pointed out.

 

“But it looks like a fucking sheep shearing shed.” Dik said in disgust.

 

“Well we are in Wales.” I said helpfully.

 

“That poster’s probably just for a knitwear

parade put on by the Women’s Institute.” Mulligan said.

 

“Well even if it is, they’ll need a band won’t

they.” Annette said. “So get the gear in.”

 

I peered round the stage curtain at the room.

There looked to be over a hundred bodies – everything from punks to tractor jockeys. Who knew where these people came from.

 

Halfway through the first set I saw Mulligan

had 2 teenaged punkettes standing staring up at him. Flattered by their attentions he smirked and started skanking, whipping his bass and dreadlocks back and forth. His smirk grew into a lecherous grin, interspersed with the odd bout of pouting. I caught Dik’s eye, nodded at Mulligan and rolled my eyes. Dik blew me a kiss between cymbal crashes and I mouthed “fuck off.” Pretty much business as usual then.

 

          “We get what?” Dik asked.

 

“A bowl of stew.” Annette replied.

 

“A bowl. Of stew.” I added helpfully.

 

“A bowl of stewed what?” Mulligan asked.

 

“Look I don’t know. That’s the rider, two 12

packs of lager and a bowl of stew each.” Annette said, fighting hard not to smirk.

 

“Stew?” Miki asked, coming into the room in his

personal cloud of B&H smoke, “Stewed what?”

 

“The last band that played here probably.”

Annette said, and pointed at a battered aluminium cauldron sitting next to a small stack of polystyrene bowls.

 

“Well I’ll have a go.” I volunteered. “I am a bit

puckish as it goes.”

         

“Pig bin”, Miki said, grinning round owl glasses.

He tugged at a lager ring pull.

 

          “You what?” Dik said.

 

          “That’s what they used to call him when he was little. Pig bin.”

 

          “He was never little.” Mulligan said

 

          “On account of he’d eat anything left over.” Miki finished.

 

          “Bollocks!” I said through a mouthful of stew. “Here this isn’t too bad when you get over the initial shock.” I sat down and poked through the brown goo in search of something identifiable. “Open that door would you. Its like a broom cupboard in here.”

 

“It is a broom cupboard Luke.” Annette said

pointing at a clutch of mops and buckets in the corner.

Dik opened the door and I saw a corridor outside. He stuck his head out.

         

“The bogs.” He announced.

         

“At least this dressing room’s not the actual

bogs. For a change.” Miki said.

 

          “Yes,” Mulligan sighed, “a definite step up this is.”

 

          “Goin’ for a slash.” Dik said.

 

          “Thanks for sharing,” I said through a mouthful of stew.

 

          “And try not to get beaten up.” Annette yelled at the departing drummer.

 

A couple of minutes later there was a ruckus out

in the corridor and suddenly Dik appeared backpedaling and swinging punches at what turned out to be 3 skinheads. Mulligan, all 7 stone of him, leaped into the corridor and joined the fray. I shifted my chair so I could see better. I swear I nearly choked when Mulligan swung at a skin who ducked and Mulligan’s fist slammed into the wall. Security in the shape of a couple of tractor mechanics with fists like ham hocks arrived and soon restored peace. Mulligan stood in the dressing room wagging his injured hand back and forth.

         

“Does anything feel broken?” Annette asked

anxiously.

         

“Dunno.” Mulligan said, pouting like a bruised

five-year-old. I swear he was blinking back crocodile tears. “It hurts like fuck.”

 

“Diddums.” Dik said to Mulligan. Then to me,

“Here, the bass playing might pick up a bit in the

second set then.”

 

          “Couldn’t make it any worse.” I agreed.

 

 

We started the second set with Burning Down and

then wheeled into the hurdy gurdy of Citinite. This was Mulligan’s only vocal, so while he held onto his synth for dear life and crooned the vocal through semi-clenched teeth, I had a chance to step back and stand next to Dik’s drums. I was chugging out the chords to the second verse when I saw Mulligan’s two little punky girl admirers. They stood side by side gazing directly up at Mulligan. They each held almost full pints of beer. Mulligan was really hamming it up, shooting them little pouts between lines, when they suddenly looked at each other, nodded, and … threw their beer all over Mulligan. The look of total shock, followed by the sight of drenched rat tail dreadlocks were too much for me and I lost it. The rhythm section finished the number with a good deal of unamplified hyena howling.

 

****

 

“Look at that smirking git.” Dik pointed to

Damned bass player, Captain Sensible.

 

     “Yeah. Probably thinks all those people out in the crowd are dressed like that because of him.” Mulligan said.

 

“Alright Captain? Yeah, nice one.”

 

I sashayed into the dressing room, tired and

shagged out after a long hard shag, reeking of Symiane and carrying another armful of brightly colored French berets.

 

“Not more frog hats.” Miki said, “Well, I’m not

wearing one.”

 

“We know, we know.” I said, then to Dik and

Mulligan, “He never got over Dunkirk you know.”

 

“Looks more like he never got away from Dunkirk.”

Annette said.

 

Dik took a bright blue beret from me and set it

on his head at a jaunty angle.

 

“We were just saying that old Sensible probably

thinks all those punters out there are wearing berets because he does.”

 

“Silly lad.” I agreed. “Still should be a good

night. And it might help poor old Sid.”

 

“Somebody needs to.” Annette said.

 

“Yeah, well he’s not exactly doing himself any

favors in the old waking up and finding your girlfriend dead and a knife in your hand department, is he?” Miki agreed.

 

We were playing a benefit at The Mayfair Suite in

the heart of Brum (not that it had one) to raise funds for Sid Vicious’s legal costs, as the stupid git had just gotten himself arrested in New York on suspicion of murdering Nancy Spungeon. Our spot on the bill was right before the headlining Damned and at that time we had for a couple of months been sporting a variety of garishly-colored French berets, and so consequently had a good number of our fans. At that time things French were considered by us très en vogue, vis the band’s official drink was Pernod (my official drink was anything I could my hands on), the official cigarettes were Gauloise, the eau de toilette was Rive Gauche ... you get the picture (Monet). At that time Captain Sensible, bass player with The Damned, was prone to wear a beret or two, so when he saw almost half the audience sporting berets he naturally assumed it was some for of Sensible worship. Wrong! His face fell several floors when, following our two encore performance (this was after all our home town), The Damned hit the stage and find that not only were the berets missing, but also the half of the audience who had been wearing them. Touché mate!

 

“What’s the matter with you now? Annette wanted

to know.

 

“Oy lanky,” Dik yelled across the dressing room,

“Lose a fiver and find a quid?”

 

“Bastards.” I muttered and slumped down on a

flight case.”

 

“What happened?” Miki asked.

 

“I’ll tell you what happened. I went for a slash,

right—”

 

“What, and it wasn’t as big as you remembered?”

Mulligan asked.

 

“Shut up. Can’t you see he’s upset.” Dik said,

“The big pouff.”

 

“So on my way back I’m pushing through the crowd

and as I’m passing Scabies and Corkie I hear them laughing about how much money they’d taken tonight. And how that stupid sod Sid wasn’t going to see a penny of it.”

 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.”

 

“Exactly.” I said.

 

“What are we going to do?” Mulligan asked.

 

“I for one,” Miki said, “am going to get the

truck loaded, go home and try not to wake up next to a dead bint.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re surprised.” Annette

said,  “I mean, we’re not exactly surrounded by saints, are we.”

 

“Him and his “Sod The Whale” tee- shirt.” I said,

“Wonder where I can get one of those.”

 

****

 

         Right slap bang outside the Moseley Road Employment Office, I stood with Dick holding a prehistoric boom box and listening to BRMB Radio play Steady Eddie Steady.

 

“... and that was Steady Eddie Steady, the newly

recorded version out on Illegal Records by local boys about to make good, Fashion music ...”

 

We danced a war dance, a jig of triumph, a kick

heels victory skank around that boom box, UB40 cards held aloft. The deal with your UB40 was that it had two purposes. It was the card you presented every two weeks to claim your dole, but in the highly unlikely event that you found a job, you were supposed to fill out your UB40 naming your new employer and all that guff. Mine and Dick’s UB40 cards now both bore the words “self employed professional musician”. It had only taken me nine years from deciding I wasn’t going to university like a good little boy but rather would be a musician to this point of having a record deal and a future in those the first days of no future.

 

“....and tomorrow night you’ll be able to catch

Fashion music’s first ever TV appearance, broadcast live from BBC Pebble Mill in a show hosted by Toyah Wilcox....”

 

Thank you BRMB for that update and that of course

was the reason we were dancing our symbolic burn the dole card dance out on that timeless Moseley Road day. You could

hardly expect to swan into the dole and collect your dosh after your mush has been spread all over primetime TV, could you now?

    

****

 

“Will you look at her!” a model slinked past me

and Mulligan. We were both grinning like ferrets. I was really missing Symiane.

 

“I wish I had more than one pair of eyeballs – oh

my god look at the tits on— ” Dik attempted.

 

“It’s fucking impossible.” Miki said.

 

“Unlikely, I’ll grant you.” I said, “But nature

is occasionally overly benevolent.

 

“What? No, no, you lecherous old sod not her

tits, the levels!”

 

“The what?” Mulligan asked.

 

“Will you lot please tear yourselves away from

the tart brigade for two minutes and listen. This is important. It’s about the ludicrously low volume levels they insisting we record this TV show at. You should see the steam-driven old PA they’ve got. We are talking BBC World Service circa 1929, not 19 sodding 79!”

 

          “Doesn’t he get excited.” Dik said.

 

          “Good job someone does. Or you’ll end up making your TV debut sounding like a wet fart in a blanket.”

 

          “Nothing new there then.” Annette said.

 

          “Oy. Do you mind? That’s enough of that. She’s spending far too much time with us you know. It’s definitely having a bad effect on her.” I said.

 

          “Tell me about it.” Annette said. Then to Miki, ”So what can we do?”

 

          Miki lit a B&H. “Dunno,” he said, “Look don’t worry about it. Just play like you normally do. I’ll do a bit of surreptitious level nudging. Sorry John, was that your elbow, sort of thing.”

 

The TV studios were yet another glimpse of the

plush that lay beyond the glass windows we’d only ever previously pressed our noses against. Although after you got through the first five minutes of no one asking you what the fuck you were doing in their nice TV studios and trying to throw you out on your arse, the novelty pretty much wore off. The show we were to appear on was a presentation of B’ham College of Fashion bright young things’ graduating collections. This was their first time on the telly as well. The difference was that they would all swan off to choke on petit fours and other things unmentionable in the shadow of the old Arc De Triomphe, while we would … well, y’know, become the biggest band on the planet.

 

“Look at them.” Dik said, indicating the

designers fluttering around models making last second adjustments.

 

“A right bunch of bleedin’ mommas boys and doomed

birds.”

 

“You just know they have all the Leonard Cohen

and Laura Nyro records, don’t you. That’s the sort of pap they listen to while they’re knocking out their sketches of dodgy frocks, I mean.” I said.

 

“You two can be a right pair of oafs sometimes.”

Mulligan said.

 

“Oooh, get Mr. Sensitivity,” I said.

 

“Yeah, sorry. We forgot you’d be right in your

elephant with this lot.” Dik added “And shouldn’t it be oaves?”

 

But the models were another kettle of poissons.

Symiane was at that time unfortunately back in France, but there were at least two models who rivaled her beauty. So in true bastard fashion (sic) I did everything I could to pull one of them. From which attempted delights I was snatched to do a run through twenty minutes before show time.

We were to perform Product Perfect, our glib

little piss-take paean to excessive consumerism, that we had already decided would be the title track of our hopefully soon to be recorded first album. After a bunch of gabbing by the personable Toyah, a few models strutted up and down in front of the cameras. For the most part, if you were to have asked me, which sensibly no one did, they looked like rejects from bad Dr Who episodes, but then I knew and know as much about haut couture as did these designers about slotting reggae breaks into punk songs. To each his or her own, innit?

So then we were on and a right nerve-wracking

time of it we had. As Miki had foretold we were told in no uncertain terms that we weren’t allowed to play too loud, on account of this was TV. Me, I didn’t see the difference and neither did Mulligan, Dick or Miki. Thus, following a run-through where volume levels were as BBC sound engineers deigned they should be, we cranked everything up and walloped into our quirky little number, Product Perfect. Apparently there was much hair-tearing by said sound engineers and we were later threatened with all sorts of dire consequences mainly revolving around a ban by the BBC (something no one convinced they were on their way to the top wanted) but then again everyone we later spoke to who saw the show said we sounded just fine, very strong, and after all was said and done that was the idea.

To cap a perfect evening I was snubbed by all

three of the models I tried to pull, and duly went off home to a cold and lonely bed. I whiled away the insomnia hours with ever more lurid and unrealistic visions of what I would do once I got my hands on an unsuspecting record-buying public.

 

****

 

“Bit bigger than Outlaw, innit.” Miki eyed the

mixing desk. He licked his lips and started rolling up his sleeves.

 

“Here, have you seen out there?” Mulligan bustled

into the control room.

 

“Brilliant studio.” I added coming in behind him.

 

“This is John,” Annette said, introducing us to

the engineer and owner of Grosvenor Studios.

 

“Hello John!” we all chorused like a line of kids

greeting Santa.

 

“Hello … ” John scanned his clip board, “…

Fashion. Well, we’ve never actually recorded a pop group before.”

 

“Oh-kay. So what have you recorded?” I asked.

 

A prim-looking lady with her hair on a bun came

into the control booth carrying a tea tray.

 

“I thought you might like a cup of tea before you

started.” She said. Her accent was every bit as posh as John’s, they sounded like a couple of BBC newsreaders from the 1940’s.

 

“This is my wife, Anne.” John said, “Thanks

awfully old gal.”

 

Anne set the tea tray down. John and Mary, who

had evidently taken a wrong turn somewhere along the road to their rose-framed cottage in the country and ended up in Handsworth. Isn’t fate a right bastard sometimes? John was, I decided a retired Spitfire pilot, one of the Few and a thoroughly decent chap, still endowed with an innocence that the rest of England had long since surrendered.

 

“Well to answer your question chaps,” John said,

“we’ve mainly recorded classical music ensembles. The occasional choir. A brass band.”

 

“Don’t forget that reggae band.” Anne said, with

a sudden, far-away island look on her face. “Well anyway, they were all such decent chaps. I brought them a tea tray just like yours.”

 

We sat and nibbled arrowroots like the good

little choirboys we’d suddenly become.

 

“Now I can see that most of you smoke and John

enjoys a good rum-soaked perrique-filled meersham now and again. But these reggae chaps were all smoking what appeared to be large herbal cigarettes. I expect they’re better for you than the normal ones you buy. Any way the air was quite thick with their smoke and it’s the strangest thing but after I left the booth, do you know I felt as happy as a lark.”

 

“Yeah,” I grinned, “well reggae is likely to make

you feel happy.”

 

“Oh yes,” Mulligan chimed in, “especially if it’s

played well.”

 

Having shared a dressing rooms with a couple of

reggae bands, I knew exactly what she meant. Jah rasta contact high mon!

 

There is a lot of bollocks talked about the

creative process in the studio. The truth is, it’s just plain hard work, with lots of nerve-wracking, will I make it to the end of the track without dropping a clanger, thrown in for good measure. Long hours spent waiting to do a brilliant job on your part while the rest of the band make a pigs ear of their parts, or vice versa, no drugs or booze, too much tea and fags, no sleep, no fun … and I fucking loved every minute of it.

The recording of the album took two weeks and was our

first real taste of “real” recording. I loved the process, the incarceration, the repetition, the stress of deadlines, the fact that Mulligan still hadn’t learned his scales as such (and never would), the journey into uncharted territory. This was also Miki’s first 16 track production session and he reveled in it, laying much of the early groundwork that would stand him in good stead doing live sound and producing recordings for a future host of bands. Only Dick had a hard time in the studio, which as a drummer was understandable. You have to understand that the drums were the first real thing to be recorded, the accompanying guitar and bass played along with the drums were only guide tracks and once the drums were accurately recorded the bass and guitar parts were separately re-recorded later. So once Dick had the drums down for the 12 tracks we recorded there wasn’t a great deal else for him to do, beyond occasional vocal tracks and one blues harp track that came much later in the process(on Red Green and Gold  the dub harmonica solo that Dick played was executed on a plastic toy harmonica shaped like a banana, and given the fact that he couldn’t actually play harmonica is further testament to the way that in those early days experimentation just seemed to work out for us) There is something else to be taken into consideration concerning the vast majority of drummers — they are quite insane. Quite the most volatile, difficult personalities you are likely to encounter this side of nowhere. My pet theory was all that doing four different things at the same time while playing that unhinged them. You have to further realize that Dick was very much a drummer in the Keith Moon  vein, in both looks, playing style and devil-may-give-a-shit attitude to everything. He spent many days prowling the hallways and rooms of Grosvenor looking for something to get into. All things considered and given Dick’s track record for “diversions” John and Mary were definitely fortunate that their establishment was still standing and as far as anyone could tell intact by the last day of recording.

The 12 tracks we recorded were Product

Perfect, Die In The West, Red Green and Gold, Burning Down, Big John, Hanoi Annoys Me, The Innocent, Citinite, Don’t Touch Me, Bike Boys, Fashion, and Technofascist .

At the end of 2 weeks sweat and swagger we sat

around in exhausted clumps on the main studio floor.

 

“Well what time is he supposed to be here?” I

asked Annette.

 

“I don’t know. About 2.”

 

“What time is it now?”

“You’ve got a watch. I’m not your Mom.”

 

I suddenly threw myself into Annette lap bawling

“Mommy, mommy, I want my mommy!”

 

Annette disengaged herself with a swift karate

chop to the throat and everyone had a good laugh while I crawled around on all fours gasping like landed fish.

 

          “Well I think he works for the CIA.” Mulligan announced.

 

          “Who?” Dik wanted to know.

 

          “Who? Kevin Keegan. Who do you think?” Mulligan said.

 

“Well, his Dad was acting head of the CIA when

Miles was a lad.” Miki added.

 

“Who Kevin Keegan?”

 

“Shut up Luke!” They chorused.

 

“Hard to imagine Miles as a kid though innit.” I

noted.

 

“Well I still say he’s here to undermine the

government. Just using this record company, band manager thing as a cover isn’t he.” Mulligan insisted.

 

It wasn’t the first, or the last time, that this

theory was posited about Miles Copeland.

 

“Look dopey,” Dik said, “In the first place

America are our allies. Secondly last time I looked outside we weren’t exactly a third world banana republic. Well no bananas anyway. And thirdly, the government are doing a fine job of undermining themselves, thanks all the same.”

 

“Do you know,” I told Annette, “I think that’s

the most words I ever heard him string together at one time that didn’t have anything to do with tits.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Yes Mom.”

 

Miki strolled in wreathed in B&H smoke.

 

“Oy, ladies. He’s here.”

 

“Blimey, where’s the red carpet? Do I have to

curtsey or bow? What’s the correct term of abuse – I mean address?” I asked.

 

“Give us the money.” Mulligan said.

 

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

 

Miles Copeland and Nick Jones, Fagin trailing

Bill Sikes, made their entrance. Miles took a quick look around at the studio he’d paid for us to all but live in for the last 2 weeks. There were 2 chairs in the middle of the floor facing the gigantic studio monitors. Miles and Nick seated themselves, while Miki scurried off to the control booth. As the opening riff to the first track, Product Perfect, Dik, Mulligan and I slunk outside. We crouched shivering round our Galoises, beneath a lead gray sky, menaced by tramp finger trees.

 

“What if he doesn’t like it?”

 

“Course he’ll like it.”

 

“He doesn’t have to release it you know.”

 

“Well fuck him then. If he doesn’t like it, he

has no class.”

 

“No taste.”

 

“No vision.”

 

We looked at each other.

 

“We could be in trouble here.”

 

Back inside the studio they were over halfway

through listening to Big John/Hanoi Annoys Me/The Innocent trilogy that would close side one of the album. Dik had already sung about Keith Richards at the clinic, Sid Vicious having too much rope, and John Lennon living in the Big Apple raising cows. Then he’d swung into a rant about being sick of hearing about the Vietnam war in particular and Americans in general. Dik was screeching: “what about the Catholics, the commies and the Jews, what about the fascists, the Moslems and Hindus, what about the Irish, the Poles and the blacks, What about the Russians, the Aussies and the Japs … Hanoi annoys me, … Hanoy-oy-oy-oy-oy-oy oy!”

 

Then I rounded things off nicely by singing about how nothing was our fault.

 

The track ended. Miles stood up and walked about

looking thoughtful.

 

“Yeah,” Miles drawled, most of his forebrain most

likely occupied with shaved percentages, fine print, promotional budgets, and expected returns,

 

“Well it ain’t great.” He said.

 

“Now come on Miles,” grinned Mulligan, “don’t beat

about the bush, just come right out and tell us what you really think.”

 

“But it is good,” Miles continued, completely

missing the sarcasm, “We can work with this. Get ‘em some shows Nick.”

 

Upon which proclamation Nick Jones, much to his

subsequent regret, was doomed to become a large part of our life over the next six months or so.   

 

And they left, scurrying back to London without

even listening to the tracks for side 2.